


Bones in the Machine

by bubblesnail



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, turbolift!McCoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-05
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblesnail/pseuds/bubblesnail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his heroic and untimely death, the ghost of Leonard McCoy inhabits the turbolift of the Enterprise and teaches Jim a thing or two about living and loving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghost in the Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spoiler-free Kink Meme prompt seen [here](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink/7804.html?thread=21028476#t21028476). Fic should be completely posted by December.

Jim's pace grew more reluctant the closer he came to the turbolift. Today, he'd actually considered using one of the Jefferies tubes to ascend the levels of his ship, but he'd reluctantly decided against it. The Captain needed to present the proper image and there was nothing _mechanically_ wrong with turbolift alpha. Scotty and Spock had agreed on that.

Erratic electrical shorts in the interior lighting aside, all turbolifts were cleared for use and each had passed the most strenuous safety maintenance battery the pair could devise.

It wasn't that Jim believed the rumors. He didn't. The flickering lights were just… creepy.

Maning up, Jim waved a hand over the lift's call sensor.

With nothing to occupy his mind, Jim felt the pressure in his head pound over his temples as he waited for the next turbolift. He hadn't slept well in weeks. M'benga had paid him a brief visit a few days ago and given him a sedative-filled hypo, one programmed to allow a dose to be delivered every 20 hours.

Jim had taken it, politely thanked the doctor, and promply shoved the device into the back corner of a drawer where he wouldn't have to look at it — too many memories about hyposprays. Though, as haggard as he felt after weeks of insufficient sleep, he might have to consider fishing it out. Tonight, maybe. But it wouldn't fix things. Not really.

He hadn't wanted to start using sleep-aids after it happened, not when he knew the situation was only going to get worse. Jim hoped this morning was as bad as it would get.

He still hadn't gone to sleep when Spock's report came in at 0427. It was The Report. He'd forced himself to read it. Spock's report, penetratingly thorough as always, echoed what Jim himself had finally come to accept: everyone else had done things by the book and the only causes for blame rested on the planet's screwey tectonics, the colony's deceptively shoddy construction, and the fact that Bones had a soft spot a sector wide for kids and had taken a gamble he shouldn't have.

Spock, naturally, had made it much more official-sounding than that, but there was a thread of emotion in the writing that Jim was unaccustomed to seeing from the half-Vulcan.

The last line of the report had read: _Although the lives of two children were saved by the actions taken by Dr. Leonard McCoy, Starfleet has lost one of its finest officers._

'Finest officers,' not 'finest Chief Medical Officers.' If anyone else had written the report, Jim would have taken the lack of specificity as emotional sentiment. But Spock had written this, so the imprecise wording revealed something even more telling.

With the final report signed off and waiting in the queue to be transmitted back to Starfleet at their next scheduled check-in, Jim could officially put the matter behind him and never again think about in detail how his best friend had died. Unofficially, of course, closure would be a long time in coming.

Having read Spock's report and knowing how well-regarded the abrasive man was by his medical team, it seemed Jim wouldn't be entirely alone in his sorrow.

 _Dammit, Bones. You stupid, brave shit… we're all gonna miss you._

Perhaps he was being petty, but it was a small comfort.

The doors of the lift hissed open, drawing his mind away from thoughts of Bones and back to his duty to the ship. He stepped inside the small space and signaled for the bridge. And, for a moment, all was well. Seconds later, the lights began to flicker.

"Please, not today," he begged wearily.

Like a switch thrown, the lights returned to normal. Jim shivered.

 _Haunted_ , ship scuttlebutt said.

The very thought frayed at his tensely-held control. He'd been able to sleep for only an hour after reading the details of Bones' death, the how, the why… all laid out with exacting Vulcan precision.

Bones was dead. Really dead. And suddenly the crew thought there was a ghost haunting the turbolift conduits.

He closed his eyes, head pounding. At the lift's warning he straighted and tugged his tunic back into place. Behind him, the lights flickered as he stepped out onto the bridge.

***

Spock was sitting in the command chair, but stood fluidly at Jim's approach.

The half-Vulcan looked — if not quite _tired_ , then at least like he was operating at less than his typical efficiency. Jim frowned in concern.

"Spock," Jim called as the man made to move past him. He pitched the rest of his words low. "I know you were up late finishing that report. Even with the wacky hours you keep, you should try to get some more rest."

"With all due respect, Captain, I could say the same. I was not expecting you to report to the bridge this morning."

Spock's response had been just loud enough to travel to Jim's ears only. Jim wasn't being challenged or warned and Spock's face and tone of voice had been utterly, perfectly, neutral.

 _Unfit for duty…_ The words whispered in his mind as they had been every day for the past week.

Squaring his shoulders, Jim looked to the helm. "Mister Sulu, you have the conn. Mister Spock, you're with me."

His quarters were the only place private enough for this conversation. Which meant the turbolift again.

Kirk entered, Spock followed smoothly in behind him. "Deck five."

The turbolift hummed to life and began its descent, but overhead, the lights flickered madly.

Jim swore and pounded the side of his fist into the wall of the lift. "Not today!"

"Captain?"

Spock could have been asking any number of questions.

Jim wearily shook his head, grateful that his thump to the panels had seemed to fix the glitch… the lights flickered briefly as they exited… or not.

Considerately, Spock didn't question him further as Jim led the way into his quarters. Jim sat behind his desk and Spock surprised him by sitting as well. Jim was more accustomed to seeing him stand at parade rest; though, as stiffly as Spock was sitting, there wasn't all that much difference.

He wasn't entirely sure what he wanted to say now that he had privacy to say whatever he pleased. No matter how long he stared, the metallic sheen of the desktop didn't hold any answers.

"Was the report I submitted not completed to your satisfaction, Captain?" Spock asked after an inestimable amount of time had passed in silence.

Jim thought of several responses to the question, but discarded them all in-turn, because the report wasn't _fine_ , dammit. It was a report detailing how and why Dr. Leonard McCoy became a casualty on an away mission. It would never be _fine_.

"Your report was thorough and of your typical high quality, Mr. Spock. I found no fault with your writing."

"Captain, may I be of assistance to you?"

 _Yes._

But, what did Jim actually want? Fuck. He _wanted_ to crawl back into bed and not come out again. Shaking off that desire, he firmed his jaw and looked at his First Officer.

"I require your professional opinion." He could beat around the bush, or he could ask directly. Better to just get the words out there. "Am I unfit for duty?"

Spock didn't even blink before answering. "No, sir, you are not."

"What? My best friend fucking _died_. Bones' mangled body is in the ship's _morgue_. How the fuck am I _not_ emotionally compromised? And if you say I didn't love him, I swear I'll break your neck."

"That would be an unwise course of action, Captain," Spock said, not specifying which of the theoretical actions he was referring to. "If I may make an observation? Captain, over the past six days, your productivity has decreased by 41% and the crew has become concerned for your well-being. However, I have, as is my duty at such a time, reviewed all of your command decisions from the moment you received notice of the doctor's passing. All were inherently rational. You are still capable of making sound command decisions, and therefore, you are not emotionally compromised as defined by Starfleet's appropriately narrow regulations."

"Screw 'Fleet's definitions. I'm a mess! And there isn't a man, woman, neuter, trine, or other on board who doesn't know it."

"You are bereaved and in mourning, certainly. As are we all. Despite, or perhaps because of the doctor's abrasive personality, he was beloved by many. Shipwide efficiency is down 22% and the crew is struggling with both their own sorrow and the concern they feel for you." At Jim's surprised look, Spock continued. "It is very well known that you and the doctor were close and the crew is responding to your pain. But even with these facts, regulations do not require that the Captain be happy while in command of the ship. It is illogical, unnecessary, and perhaps even detrimental, for you to not feel and express your grief freely. There is no shame in doing so. Doctor McCoy is missed and his absence will be felt acutely for some time to come."

Spock didn't have all the facts, though.

"This morning, I had to force myself out of bed."

"You arrived on the bridge at the designated time."

"Spock, that's not the point."

At this, Spock raised an eyebrow. "It is my professional opinion that you are fit for command, Captain. Arguing with me on this matter, ironically, will not change my mind. If, however, Sir, you choose to take bereavement leave, you may begin the healing process knowing that I will uphold your duties until you feel you are prepared to return."

Jim cradled his face in his palm. Maybe he _should_ take some time off. It had been impossible before, due to the delicacies of the missions assigned to them, but now, when they were tasked with what was essentially a milk run…

"Jim, approximately how many hours of sleep did you achieve this past evening?"

Brown, nearly black, eyes were watching him, studying him carefully.

His lip curled up in mimicry of amusement. "'bout one and a half. Maybe two."

At this, Spock noticibly frowned, his lips pursing in disapproval. "Humans require more rest. If I return to the bridge now, will you be able to locate your bed and utilize it appropriately?"

Jim was tired enough that he didn't go for the easy, innuendo-laden joke. "I'm exhausted, but not sleepy."

"Then, with your permission, I will request Doctor M'benga come here and administer a soporific."

Spock's eyes challenged him to argue.

Jim spared himself the grief and had their argument in his head, his brain easily supplying logical rebuttals to his every argument.

"There's a hypo he gave me at the bottom of the upper-right dresser drawer." He looked at Spock, needing to admit this to someone. "I haven't used it." He hoped he wouldn't have to say more.

Slowly, Spock nodded. "If you prepare yourself for sleep, I will administer the medication." He paused. "You may, perhaps, find it less stressful if you avert your gaze?"

Nodding his acquiescence, Jim toed off his boots — even though he knew they were a bitch to shine and he wasn't so full of himself that he'd ask for his yeoman to take care of it for him. His outer tunic was stripped off and tossed into a corner somewhere, and then he was sitting at the foot of his bed, eyes closed, waiting.

He didn't hear Spock move; the footfalls were too quiet, but he heard the whirr of the dresser drawer as it was opened and closed and the slip-slide of fabric being adjusted inbetween.

He anticipated Spock's approach and turned his head, exposing more of his neck. The touch, when it came, was not the cold metal of the hypospray, but the heat of Vulcan skin against human. One strong thumb soothed over Jim's jugular vein while the rest of Spock's fingers cupped his neck.

"It is not necessary to pursue this course of action. I would be willing to assist you in meditation, if you prefer. Alternatively, medication may be formulated for ingestion if that delivery method will be less… distressing for you."

"Inject me and get it over with," Jim ordered through clenched teeth.

"As you wish." The sting of the injection accompanied Spock's response. "I will see to the paperwork necessary for your absence today."

The paperwork was no small favor. "Thanks, Spock. I'll see you on the bridge tomorrow."

"If that is your desire," Spock acknowledged. "Goodnight, Captain."

"Spock." Jim stopped him before the half-Vulcan could exit. "Figure out what's wrong with that damn turbolift, would you? It bugs me."

Jim waited for some dry and wholly logical snark about how the lift's systems had already been screened for insect infestations, but Spock's response was unexpected.

"Understood. Please rest, Captain."

Maybe Spock had heard the rumors too and really did understand. Or, maybe Jim was being humored.

Chemically-induced sleep pulled at him.

If Spock did understand, though, when added to Spock's words today, it kinda put the kibosh on the whole 'cold-blooded' notion. Bones wouldn't believe this.

 _Bones…_


	2. Light in the Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies. Word count is now inaccurate due to how I've chosen to format some dialogue.

By some combination of sedative and emotional exhaustion, Jim slept through the rest of alpha shift, all of beta, and into the first quarter of gamma. He woke feeling calmer and more alert, but strangely brittle, as if the edges of the world were too much in focus.

The bathroom he shared with his First Officer was unoccupied and, as Spock was probably starting up his sleep-cycle, Jim didn't feel the least bit guilty over setting the sonic shower to a 30-minute massage pattern. The pulsing sonic waves soothed over the last of his tension and he was mostly able to keep his mind deliciously blank for the duration, but as he tugged on the command gold tunic, the weight of his responsibilities followed. Which… was something akin to comfort, he realized.

There were certainly matters pertaining to the ship that could keep him occupied. A captain typically did not take unplanned days off of work, so there would almost certainly be a backlog of items requiring his attention. Better busy than moping. Welcoming the normalcy of routine, he sat down at his desk and keyed in his authorization for the computer terminal.

Oh, there were reports all right.

Contrary to his expectations prior to enlisting, periods of space flight typically generated more reports cumulatively than away missions and combat activities themselves as the Enterprise's crew, nearly scientists and engineers all — even the security officers, Jim had been surprised to learn, demonstrated proficiency in at least one area of science — had ample time to further analyze the data previously collected and conduct experiments. All of which resulted in requisition orders, announcements of findings, requests for further observational opportunities, and permit applications for potentially hazardous experiments.

It was that last category, experiments, Jim found the most terrifying (and utterly awesome, but mostly terrifying). Spock, in his role as Chief Science Officer, regularly provided his recommendations, but he did not often make new requests on his own behalf. Spock's personal research predilections tended toward long-term projects and his near-single-minded focus was astrometric mapping and observation.

Which was why Jim was surprised to see a request originating from Spock in his folder of Dreck to be Dealt With. Intrigued, he opened the file. Spock was requesting access to the security video footage of the turbolift interior. The highly logical reasoning behind it was because he had discovered a potential pattern in the flickering lights and wished to have a further sample of data on which to base his findings. In a section of the file pertaining solely to private notes between the captain and a department head, Spock had noted: _This request is superfluous and may be denied as you see fit, however I consider it to be germane to what you asked of me yesterday evening._

Translation: Spock would prove the turbolift wasn't haunted and life would move on.

Jim approved the request.

 * * *

For two days, Jim managed to keep his head in the game. He steadfastly ignored the flickering turbolift lights, tuned out the rumors that flew even thicker, and calculated warp field equations in his head whenever _ghost_ or _haunted_ flickered through his mind. At night, in the privacy of his quarters, he talked to Bones and told him about his day.

When Spock stood, again, before Jim's desk (but this time with a furrowed brow and a tray of food), Jim was ready to believe absolutely anything his First Officer wanted to tell him about turbolift alpha.

"Doctor M'benga requested that I deliver this to you." Spock set the tray down, paused. "I have read that human appetite can be either bolstered or diminished in response to stress stimulus."

Jim dredged up a mild glare for the hybrid. "Human, Spock? What's your appetite like when you're stressed, or focused, or however it is you Vulcans get?"

"I rarely have any perceptible feelings of appetite ever. While certain flavor palates are more pleasing to me than others and while both aroma and taste can trigger sense-memories in many species, Vulcan precepts have always held that food is simply the required sustenance of the body. To not eat when one's energy is flagging would be illogical and could contribute to even further illogical behavior."

"I feel pretty damn illogical right now," Jim said with a sigh. Grudgingly, he set his PADD aside and pulled the tray into position in front of him. Braised beef brisket (already in bite-sized pieces), a Xiladuan-style salad, and white bean soup with large vegetabley-shaped chunks wouldn't have been his first choice, but nothing sounded good. At least with both M'benga and Spock involved, putting a dent in the proffered meal would be a healthy thing to do, Jim figured.

"Please, Captain. Do not let my presence deter you from taking your meal."

Jim opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better and dutifully shoveled in a spoonful of the soup.

Spock, for some reason, took that as his cue to seat himself and then began a description/lecture on the intricacies of his latest astrometrics project. After a little more than half the tray was gone, Spock's idle chatter dried up and was replaced with an unaccountably tense silence.

To be a good sport, Jim chewed through another piece of brisket before asking, "Okay, what's up?"

"Captain Kirk, I completed my investigation into the irregular turbolift lighting behavior 4.6 hours ago."

Jim frowned and looked to his terminal. "Oh. I'm Sorry I didn't respond or mention it, Spock. My eyes must've just skimmed right over it." In penance, he forced himself to crunch his way through the kale-like (and disgustingly healthy) _vriddix_ pieces of the salad that he'd been avoiding.

In the ensuing crunching, Spock's face became even more mask-like, even while the noticeably furrowed browlines returned. Jim was worried at the blatant (for Spock) display of emotion.

"There was no oversight on your part, Captain. The report is written, however I have not yet transmitted it. I considered the possibility… it may be more appropriate for me to present my findings verbally."

Jim put down his utensil and a cold clench of trepidation settled in the pit of Jim's stomach and knotted around his meal. "I'm listening, Spock."

"I have no explanation as to how this occurred," Spock prefaced, looking as uncomfortable as Jim had ever seen him appear. "I first speculated that my findings were the result of an ill-mannered prank. Yet, I am now convinced otherwise. Jim… Captain, I am of the firm belief that an entity possessing the knowledge of Dr. Leonard McCoy is attempting communication with the crew via the lighting system in turbolift alpha."

Jim swallowed. "What?" It came out in a hoarse whisper.

"In the turbolift earlier, you demonstrated that the photonic anomaly responded to your emotional outbursts. You told it 'Not today.' After reviewing the security logs, I determined that the lighting variances increased in eccentricity when other officers displayed fear or upset. The lights acquiesced to your pleas alone, Captain."

"That doesn't prove anything."

Spock's mouth opened, closed, and there was a pause. "No, that evidence does not. Not when reviewed in isolation. But it was something to take into consideration. Chief Engineer Scott and I have done further testing of the turbolift's systems since our joint report. There is less than a 0.47% probability that the effect is caused by a mechanical problem or interference."

"But the lights —"

"I do not know how this can be, but after extensive review of the security footage, I have become convinced that the turbolift lights are being used to communicate via Morse code."

"We all learned Morse code at the Academy, Spock. That doesn't prove it's —" Jim shook his head. "It's not Bones. There's no way he would ever be able to signal that fast."

"Assuming such actions required a successful joint electro-chemical signal and physical manipulation to achieve. A mass-null entity need not interact manually with circuitry."

"It's not possible. There've been stories — centuries-old ghost stories — but it's not possible."

"Captain. Jim. I knew how this news would affect you. I would not be here telling you this if there was any doubt in my mind. The security footage reveals coherent statements when slowed down and analyzed with the assumption that the message is encoded. I have a log of my observations, but there is further evidence — evidence which I hesitate to include in the report. Captain, I have conversed with the entity in the turbolift. It named itself Leonard H. McCoy and correctly answered questions that only he would know."

Feeling helplessly off-kilter, Jim had to ask — "Is there any chance at all it's just an awful prank?"

"Jim, I knew the impact my investigation would have on you and I was exceptionally thorough in my questioning. I hesitate to divulge the specific structure of my questions due to their personal nature and I have no explanation for how this can be, but I myself am convinced the entity is Leonard McCoy."

_Bones._

Jim's world was destroyed, burnt to ash, pulverized, and rebuilt in the space of a breath. "What does this mean?"

"I do not know."

Jim swallowed, then counted his breaths until he could put words to his feelings. "I want to talk to… it… myself."

"I understand, captain. I did take the liberty of inserting a delay relay in the energy conduits most frequently utilized by the photonic entity. In most circumstances, the relay disallows illumination changes within Turbolift Alpha of any frequency greater than once every 750 milliseconds. Any additional signals coming through are stored and released at a proportionately reduced pace. To activate the relay, initialize subroutine sigma-theta-899." Spock stood. "I will be in my quarters, Jim, should you wish to… discus the results of your investigation. In my time aboard _Enterprise_ , I have found that…” Spock’s words slowed and he seemed to exert greater care in their choosing. “Scientists often find benefit in discussing their discoveries with colleagues who can understand."

The message was downright odd, coming from Spock. It was almost as if… Jim shook his head. There was something compromising the turbolift that claimed to be Bones. Nothing else mattered.

"Right. Thank you. Dismissed."

Spock excused himself.

In a daze of disbelief and hope, Jim set out for the turbolift.

* * *

Lazy disbelief in the supernatural warred his own experiences out in this neck of the galaxy (which had proved to him without a doubt that Crazy Shit was entirely possible and would likely happen to him).

Heart in his throat, Jim stepped into the turbolift.

"Computer: decommission turbolift alpha; initiate security lock and deactivate security cameras in turbolift alpha. Authorization: Captain James T. Kirk, code two-six-nine-gamma."

"Security lock and camera deactivation confirmed," the ship announced.

That bit of business taken care of, Jim stretched out one hand and touched the inside of the turbolift, relieved that no one would ever witness this. It was lingering on the edge of his mind that this could all be a very cruel joke. It wasn't that he doubted Spock's assessment. Not at all. In fact, Spock, in his own way, was visibly upset and saddened by the doctor's death. Nor was it in Spock's nature to be malicious and Jim definitely counted the man as a friend. Strange, certainly, considering their rocky first impressions, but after losing Bones… Dealing with everything had been easier with the support and understanding of his First Officer.

The lights in the turbolift flickered.

_Bones, is it really you?_

There was the slight chance — hell, screw Spock's calculations, there was a huge chance… ghosts! seriously? — that they were all being deceived by the same malicious ruse.

But.. no one would see him here. If he made a fool of himself, it wouldn't matter. He'd report his findings to Spock and they'd hunt down the bastards who dared to sully the memory of Doctor Leonard McCoy.

Jim swallowed down his anger. It wouldn't do any good to plan revenge before it was proven he'd need to take disciplinary measures. Wouldn't do any good… but Jim was a Plan-for-any-situation kind of guy.

He forced himself to take five slow, deep breaths. There, at the core of him, he didn't know what he truly wanted to find. If Bones was here, it opened up a whole slew of other questions… questions Jim was more than content to leave in the hands of theologists.

If Bones was here…

_Why?_

Emotions raw, Jim pressed his palm against the side of the turbolift. Could Bones feel the press of his splayed fingertips? Was he really here, watching?

"Bones?" Jim whispered.

The lights flickered. Madly. Wildly. A shiver ran down Jim's spine.

"Wait. Just wait."

The flickering stopped.

"We think we figured it out. Morse code. Right? We all had to learn it for emergency battlefield communication."

The lights went crazy again.

"Hang on, hang on. Ya gotta go slow." It was time for Spock's delay relay. "Computer, activate subroutine sigma-theta-899. Spock said that'll help slow things down."

After a beat of a few seconds the lights in the turbolift, which had been solidly on, pulsed, plunging the lift into alternating periods of light and pitch black:

daaaaark daaaaark daaaaark

O

daaaaark dark daaaaark

K

"Okay," Jim whispered. Trembling, he fell back against the wall for support. "Bones?"

daaaaark dark dark dark

B

daaaaark daaaaark daaaaark

O

BO- _Bones!_

daaaaark daaaaark daaaaark

O

…?

BOO-

_Boobs? Book? Booster? Boolean?_

The turbolift did not darken again.

"'Boo?' Fucking 'boo'? I'm not talking to a fucking machine if all it tells me is 'boo.' I'm freaking out here! Bones, is it really you?"

Slowly, letter by letter, the message came.

I T S M E J I M

"I swear, if someone's pulling some sort of a sick joke, they'll wind up out the airlock without a life pod."

N O J O K E T H I S T I M E K I D

"Okay. Prove it. We had breakfast together that morning, just before you… just the two of us. What did you eat?"

D O N T R E M E M B E R T H A T D A Y

"Then the day before." Jim remembered. He remembered what they both ate those last few days. He'd been reliving each moment over and over again in his mind. They'd been the last times he'd ever seen Bones alive.

O N Y O U R F I R S T N I G H T A S O F F I C I A L C A P T A I N Y O U H A D A N A L L E R G I C R E A C T I O N A N D Y O U R S K I N T U R N E D B R I G H T O R A N G E Y O U M A D E M E F I X I T B E F O R E Y O U R E P O R T E D F O R D U T Y

As best as they could tell, no one but them had known because there had been absolutely no snickers or whispered comments. Everyone had met his eyes without hesitation or pause to gather themselves.

"And who did Spock discover was the culprit?"

S P O C K D I D N T F I G U R E I T O U T I D I D I T W A S A N A C C I D E N T M A D E B Y E N S I G N B E M M E L S I N T H E L A U N D E R I N G O F Y O U R B E D S H E E T S

"What's the shape of the birthmark on my left thigh?"

I T S O N Y O U R R I G H T C A L F A N D Y O U T H I N K I T S S H A P E D L I K E A N A P P L E I T H I N K I T L O O K S L I K E A C I R C L E W E R E T E S T I N G T O S E E I F I M T H E R E A L M C C O Y N O T I F I V E E V E R H A D S E X W I T H Y O U

"Hey, if you've actually slept with me, there's no way you could have paid attention to some silly birthmark. I mean, it's nowhere near my dick, ass, hands, mouth, or eyes."

D O N T T A L K T O A M E D I C A L P R O F E S S I O N A L A B O U T P O S S I B L E S E X U A L F E T I S H E S U N L E S S Y O U W A N T T O B E S C A R E D O U T O F Y O U R M I N D

"Too late for that," he whispered, not talking about the birthmark any more.

dark daaaaark daaaaark daaaaark

J

dark dark

I

daaaaark daaaaark

M

Slowly, Jim slid down to sit on the floor of the lift. Arms wrapped around his legs to hold them in place — or maybe just to hold on to something, he pillowed his head on bent knees.

"I swear,” he whispered, voice breaking, “if this is someone's sick idea of a joke —"

G E T A P A D D

Jim nodded. "Yeah?" he said out loud, not knowing if verbal answers were needed. He'd been using it already to track the longer answers. "Okay. I've got it." He slipped the device out of his pocket.

L O N G M E S S A G E the lights warned.

"All right. I'm ready." He wasn't. Not even. But the lights started to blink, slow and careful. Jim noted the letters as they came, losing the trail of the message in the pulse of light and dark. Finally, the turbolift remained illuminated.

Jim read.

O N Y O U R L A S T B I R T H D A Y I G A V E Y O U A N E W T E N N I S R A C Q U E T B U T T H A T N I G H T I G A V E Y O U A H A R D C O P Y O F E M E R S O N A N D A B O T T L E O F V I T A S S K A N L I Q U E R W E U S E D I T T O F L A M B E S T R A W B E R R I E S I N Y O U R Q U A R T E R S Y O U D O U B T E D I C O U L D O V E R R I D E T H E E N V I R O N M E N T A L S A F T E Y P R O T O C O L S O N M Y O W N B U T I D I D W E S T O L E A M E T A L P A N F R O M S P O C K S S C I E N C E L A B A N D Y O U R I G G E D U P A P H A S E R F O R A H E A T S O U R C E B E S T D A M N D E S S E R T I E V E R A T E

Jim remembered. No one else knew about that night, or, why Bones would mention that particular memory as proof, above all others.

"Bones. It's really you, isn't it."

H O W D Y K I D

He clenched his eyes shut, trying to keep the tears at bay as hope flared. "Are you really dead? Weird shit happens and…" He rambled on, how maybe Scotty could rig up some machine to put him back in his body, or maybe Spock could meld him back. Or, if the body was too decomposed, surely some brilliant scientist somewhere could build an android body for Bones to run around in. Or hell, maybe even a hologram. He wasn’t sure how a hologram could be a doctor, but surely someone, somewhere would figure it out. There were VR rooms in the homes of the vid stars, maybe there could be a room like that built on the Enterprise and Bones could —

J I M

J I M

J I M

H E Y I M R E A L L Y D E A D

I T S O K A Y

"No, it fucking isn't!"

Bones, the lights, didn't argue.

Five more deep breaths. Then another set. And another.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, finding his voice at last — even if it did come out sounding small. "Are you in pain right now?"

N O P E

Jim swallowed. "Are you scared?"

Bones didn't answer right away.

N A H A L I T T L E B O R E D S O M E T I M E S B U T I T S N O T T O O B A D

The lights went completely dark for a long time.

I K N O W I T S B E E N R O U G H O N Y O U

Memories of the last few weeks crowded into his mind. The body. The funeral. The psych eval. M'Benga. Spock's report. Breakfasts. Lunches. Dinners. Sickbay. Jim's room.

Jim bit back a sob. It came out a torn whimper, with grief ripping through his throat and chest, leaving his heart exposed and bleeding.

J I M

The turbolift went dark around him.

Jim just cried, imagining Bones sitting right there next to him.

* * *

He might have dozed, or not, but when he was able to clear his nose Bones started talking again.

light liiiiight liiiiight liiiiight

J

light light

I

liiiiight liiiiight

M

His name in soft, gentle light.

"Can you see me? Even in the dark?"

Y E P the lights glowed.

He wiped his eyes.

"I miss you. A lot."

I K N O W M E T O O

For a long time, the turbolift was dark and Jim was silent.

Bones was here. He was real.

Jim didn't know what that meant.

"So, should I plan on eating my meals here for the foreseeable future?"

T H E L I V I N G N E E D Y A J I M

"What about you?"

A L W A Y S Bones answered after a long moment. B U T Y O U R P L A C E I S W I T H T H E M

"And your place is, where? Here in the turbolift?" Jim shook his head. "I won't believe that, Bones. I can't. There has to be a reason." He felt his hands in the dark — the ridge and swirl of his palm and fingertips, the scarred nicks and minor abrasions he'd accumulated over the years. These hands. These hands had… Bones' hands had… He swallowed. "Why are you here, Bones?"

U N F I N I S H E D B U S I N E S S

"No." Jim's head jerked up; his whole body shook in utter denial. "No, I'm not doing this. Not now." He stood, ignoring the flashing lights. "Computer, disengage security lock and re-establish video surveillance. Resume normal operation of turbolift alpha."

The lights began to flicker madly, unslowed by Spock’s subroutine.

Jim looked at his chronometer. He needed to be on the bridge in five hours. He hadn't slept yet. He probably still wouldn't at this rate. But… No. There would be absolutely no discussion or damn fucking light-blinking about unfinished business tonight. Not now. Maybe not ever.

"Deck five," he barked.

The pulses between the light gradually slowed until they were slow enough for Jim to decode them if he was paying attention. Jim ignored them.

* * *


End file.
